


his dream-gray gaze never flinches

by weefaol



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Lolita Sam, M/M, Possessive Dean, Pre-Slash, Protective Dean Winchester, Violence, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 13:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13411773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weefaol/pseuds/weefaol
Summary: Dean was no stranger to unsavoury characters. He was raised among them — men who hung around truck stops and big rigs. Lonely men. Desperate men. Ones who left their morals at the door with their five-gallon hats.But Sam never learned that not all men have good intentions.





	his dream-gray gaze never flinches

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a poem in Vladimir Nabokov's _Lolita_.

It was a service station like any other — just the same as countless fill-up spots peppered every few miles across the lower forty-eight. The same fluorescent lights with flies in them. The same misspelled scribbles taped to gas pumps (“MASHINE BROKIN — PAY INCIDE”). The same truck-stop diners with big rigs in the parking lot. Lots of rough-and-tumbles kicking around.

But tonight, one motherfucker was gonna be the one getting kicked.  
By the heel of Dean’s combat boot.

Dean was no stranger to unsavoury characters. He’d been raised amongst them — men who knew how to handle a butterfly knife, who were fluent in credit card fraud, who drank until their livers rotted, whose knuckled hands with black nails fingered around dark places for comfort, for touch, for the claw and scrape of human skin.

Lonely men. Desperate men. Ones who hung their morals at the door with their five-gallon hats.

Dean had learned how to handle decrepits like that long ago — how to listen to queasy stomach pits, how to brandish a Swiss army knife, how to quickslip from ironclad grips. He’d learned hard and learned fast, left to his own devices, dragged and desecrated along the outskirts by a deadbeat daddy.

Left alone to live and learn:  
Not all men have good intentions.

Nowadays, Dean doesn’t feel the burn of immoral eyes. He’s too grown up.

But Sam, sweet Sam, with his pink apple cheeks and butterfly lashes.

Little brother was low-hanging fruit. Ripe for the plucking.  
And cherries tasted sweetest in Spring.

~~~

Dean gritted his teeth as watched man after man, state after state, get a little too close to his baby. Clenched his fist as they bought him truck-stop trinkets, squeezed him on the shoulder and whistled sweet _sonny-boys_. Dean always kept one eye on Sam during these stateside stops, achingly aware of how young — how _pure_ — the kid looked. How his limbs stretched long from growing bones. How that shaggy-shake of hair was a plea to be pulled at. How his slim frame could be so tempting for men who liked ‘em young, who had a penchant for pubescence. Pretty brown eyes. Perfect tan skin.

He could feel the blood in his bones. The prickle in his ears.  
Tonight, tonight. He’s itching for a fight.

Dean swallowed, half-gaze on the gas pump as he filled the Impala. (Dad fucked off to grab some pussy and takeout.) Sam was sitting on the ice machine just outside the station, swinging his legs and sucking on _Lik-M-Aid_. Dean surveyed him carefully while older creeps gawked from truck cabs or casually leaned against walls, knowing full well it would be like taking candy from a baby.

Sam was too trusting of strangers. Too at ease. Caught off-guard.

And the thing about unsavoury characters is — they know just how to take advantage.

Dean’s senses alighted, a hot rush of rage, when one of those rapacious men stepped out of the station and leaned against the ice machine, leering at lanky limbs.

“You gunna let me in there, sonny?” Chewing tobacco on his whiskers. “Or you gunna kick me like a wild colt?”

Sam’s cheeks turned rosy. Pulled his feet up, sheepish. “Sorry.”

“Thanks, little man,” he grinned, toothless and attuned. He opened the box and ran his grubby hand through ice cubes. Grooming.

Dean clenched his jaw, eyes burning as Sam licked the sugary dip stick like a goddamn invitation. Watched as the man leaned in closer and handed the boy something.

Piece of ice, maybe. Help him cool off.  
Dean, for one, could feel Sam’s heat from across the lot.

The man shut the ice box and sauntered over to his truck, loading it up with knick-knacks and trucker junk. At once, Sam leapt off the machine and shuffled back to the car.

Dean gritted his teeth. “What’d he give you?”

“Nothing…”

Wrong answer. Dean shoved the gas pump back in its holder and reached out, tugging a smidgen too hard on Sam’s bone-thin arm. He’d probably bruise, tiny thing. “C’mon, I saw him give you something. Hand it over.”

Sam’s cheeks went red. A moment later, he procured a cigarette lighter from his pocket. Placed it in Dean’s palm.

There was a naked woman on it.  
And it made Dean’s blood boil.

“H-he said he had more in his truck,” said Sam, shy and shrugging. Couldn’t quite meet big brother’s eye.

Because Dean was already halfway across the parking lot with fire in his lungs and his heart on his sleeve — lock, stock, and barrel. Saw the sick old fuck leaning into his 18-wheeler cab, prettying the place up for preteen playtime. Drifter, deadbeat.

_Dead meat._

With a solid steel-toed kick, Dean slammed the cab door shut. Heard the sickening crunch of aluminum and human as the frame made indents in the man’s bones — shoulders, hips, the backs of knees. Listened to the motherfucker yelp and howl as he fell to the pavement. Watched him writhe in pain, purple bruises under plaid shirts. Leaned over, grabbed hold of his jaw and shoved the naked-lady lighter down his cocksucker throat.

“Come near my brother again and I’ll kill you.”

Left the guy to splutter and choke, coughing up lighter fluid and cockroach-crawling back into his cab.

Dean returned to Sam, who had watched his brother’s violence unfurl in wide-eyed wonder. Got hard in his jeans.

“In the car,” ordered Dean, squeaking open the Chevy door and guiding Sam inside. Watched his soft bones, soft skin scuttle across the backseat. Leaned down into the shadows, hidden and forbidden, and brushed a thumb over Sam’s pink cheeks, his lips, his tongue.

Breathed in, breathed out.  
Jealous whispers at gas stations,

“No one gets to touch you but me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find more of my wolfish tales on [tumblr](http://weefaol.tumblr.com/).


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